


Meant To Be

by mneiai



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 09:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13499454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mneiai/pseuds/mneiai
Summary: It took dozens of deaths before he stopped looking at his mark, stopped checking to see if it had gone dark and dead as the trolls before him.





	Meant To Be

**Author's Note:**

> Quick soulmate AU I wrote up when I was working on the next part of Grace of the Loa.
> 
> Note beta'd/proofread/any of that.

Tyrathan’s soulmark appeared when he was 17, and more than old enough to know better than to show it off. It was in a language he had never seen before, the writing odd and almost savage looking, and he knew it was nothing that humans, or elves, or dwarves would use. 

It took him a few more years before he had his suspicions confirmed, though by then he’d at least been able to see enough Orcish script to dismiss that possibility. But a troll wasn’t much better--if anything, a troll was worse. They were barely people in most humans’ eyes, after all. To his peers, there’d be little difference between Tyrathan’s mark belonging to a troll or the troll’s raptor.

When the chance to go to Stranglethorn presented itself, he realized that this might be it, might be fate’s way of introducing him to his soulmate (because fate always intervened, eventually, it went unspoken that those who tragically ‘never met’ their soulmates were those who could not bare admitting who, or what, their soulmate was).

He met as many trolls in as neutral a manner as he could. He even went out of his way to learn Zandali, though it was near impossible to learn their writing. But being stationed there meant he didn’t just meet trolls, he killed trolls. It took dozens of deaths before he stopped looking at his mark, stopped checking to see if it had gone dark and dead as the trolls before him.

No one in Stranglethorn stood out. None of the trolls he met later did, either. He met a human woman whose soulmate had already passed on and it was easy to fall into something with her, to marry her, start a family. But for as much as he cared for her and loved his children, it wasn’t who he was. He was drawn back to the fight, the hunt, never able to simply settle down.

Eventually, he stopped checking his wrist, stopped assuming he’d meet his troll. Eventually, he took up the drunken advice of a comrade and hired a priest to wash it from his skin. 

He’d never know what it said, but it was better that way. He doubted he’d make a good soulmate, anyway.

***

When Vol’jin’s mark appeared, he’d known immediately his soulmate was human. And so, instead of celebrating as many of the others around him were doing, he took up a blade and slit deep into his flesh, cutting the mark away. When he healed, it was fainter, and each time, fainter still. 

By the time he’d taken over leadership of the Darkspears, it was only noticeable if he looked very, very closely, and then only that something had once been there. And while he could read the human language before that point, interpreting the name of his mark was also something he never bothered with.

He was a troll, a shadow hunter, a Darkspear. If this was a test from the loa or if they were mocking him, it didn’t matter--no human could ever have a place beside him.

It wasn’t until Pandaria, until Tyrathan Khort, that Vol’jin tried to see it again. After they’d returned from their capture, as the Thirty-Three planned their last stand, he sat in his room staring at the near-blank skin, attempting to remember what the mark had once looked like. 

He had seen Tyrathan’s wrists, knew the man had had his mark removed somehow, as well. It seemed too cruel that the loa had offered him a human, finally, that could be his true match, but he would never be able to confirm it. That if it had been a test, it was one he had failed, because he had never imagined a man who could be worthy of a troll, had been too closed-minded as to what ‘troll’ truly meant.

When they met, one last time, before the battle he almost asked. It was on the tip of his tongue, just the slightest of confirmations--if Tyrathan had cleared his mark because it had been of a troll. That was all Vol’jin would need to know. Because he couldn’t imagine another human for him and the idea of another troll for Tyrathan tore at Vol’jin’s heart. He’d destroy that troll, to keep him from Tyrathan, because Vol’jin could make him happier than any other troll, he knew that. He KNEW that.

***

Neither expected to survive. That both of them did (barely, but they did) was something of a miracle. Their goodbye was short, with more left unspoken than shared. It wasn’t until Tyrathan reached out with a bittersweet smile on his face, fingers brushing along Vol’jin’s bare wrist, that Vol’jin realized his answer. 

They had been meant to be, but they’d both chosen differently, and now it was too late to take that back.


End file.
